


prefer disgrace to danger

by indigostohelit



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: American Revolution, Dom/sub, Incompetency, M/M, Public Blow Jobs, Summer, Swearing, War, regret on the part of the author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 15:15:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4569309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigostohelit/pseuds/indigostohelit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A livid sky on New Jersey, and I knew the end was near."</p><p>Or: Charles Lee has never had a real job in his liiiiiiiiiife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	prefer disgrace to danger

**Author's Note:**

> Regret (Author)
> 
> The prompt for this was "Hamilton/Laurens/America". It ended up being... not that.
> 
> Historical notes at the end. All anachronisms are intentional.

Six days of marching, and no end to the heat; Hamilton could kill this sun.

Clinton and his army are miles away. There's a long trail of dirty wells and burnt bridges in between their army and here, but nevertheless every morning Hamilton wakes with his heart pounding. He might be dreaming that the redcoats are at camp, ready to string him and Laurens and the General up at last; he might be dreaming they've been betrayed, some disgruntled soldier or aide-de-camp with aching heart stealing south in the night with maps and letters shoved into his bag; he might be dreaming of nothing at all.

It's the nothing that always frightens him the most. There's only darkness, when he dreams those dreams. No plans, no words, no weapons. No way to fight or talk or write his way out. Nothing but some nameless and faceless enemy coming nearer and nearer, and Hamilton's hands empty, and his brain bare.

There's a polite cough outside the tent. "Lieutenant Colonel?" says an voice, muffled and accented.

Hamilton startles, shakes himself. "Come in," he calls.

Lafayette doesn't enter, though, only raises the flap of the tent just enough for Hamilton to see his face. "The General is asking for you," he says.

No pleasantries, then, not even the usual smile. Losing the command of the advance guard to Charles Lee has hit Lafayette hard - has hit all of them hard, if Hamilton is being honest. None of them have forgotten the incident of Lee's capture in the winter, none of them his plot to have himself installed as Commander in Chief in place of the General; none of them trust him. And it's a dark day at camp when the Continental Army would rather trust a Frenchman than one of their own -

\- though whether Hamilton himself has any claim to the title _one of their own_ , well -

The Marquis clears his throat. Hamilton sighs, pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes until stars burst. "All right," he says, "thank you. Tell the General I'll be with him directly."

No pleasantries, either, not even a farewell. Just the gentle thump of the tent flap closing, and Hamilton is alone.

It takes a few minutes to gather the will to push himself out of the tent, pick his way across camp. The stars are emerging from the dim, faded blue of the sky. The sun has been down for at least an hour, but the heat is still hanging heavy in the air. Hamilton feels as if he's wading through water, through honey, through blood.

"Sir," he says, when he's reached the General's tent.

There's a rustle, and then there's Laurens, holding the entrance to the tent open for Hamilton to enter. He ducks in.

The General is facing away from him, scribbling at a table - _he can write on his own?_ Hamilton thinks, _my God, maybe he'll actually be able to write his own letters and let the rest of us have a turn at command_ , and he then catches himself: this is not the time for old ambitions and petty feuds.

Fitzgerald and Meade are at the opposite end of the table, John Cadwalader down on the left; Hamilton follows Laurens to the General's side and seats himself at his right. No Greene, no Stirling, and - thank God - no Lee. Just Washington and his aides-de-camp, then, tonight.

"Lieutenant Colonel," says Washington, nods at him. His face is tired, and Hamilton can't quite bring himself to look at him.

"Sir," he says, and stares at the papers scattered in front of Washington instead. _Dear Martha_ , one begins, and then he has to jerk his gaze away from that, too. Of course General Washington would want to write those particular letters without the aid of a secretary.

They'd left Lady Washington at Valley Forge not three weeks ago. She'll make her way south from there, back to Mount Vernon and safety. Hamilton wonders, suddenly, what it must be like for Lady Washington to have a husband so close and still not with her – to have him for four months of the year only, and often not even that. Washington's married to the war, these days.

Aren't they all?

Laurens catches his gaze from across the table, an eyebrow raised. Hamilton makes a face at him, too quick for Fitzgerald or John Cadwalader to catch, and Laurens' mouth twists up in a smile.

At long last Washington looks up, glances around the table. "I've received word from the brigadiers general of General Lee's force," he says, and Hamilton relaxes minutely; that'll be Anthony Wayne and Charles Scott. Not the best men, not the ones Hamilton would have chosen, but Wayne is a firecracker of a soldier and Scott has presence of mind on the field like no other; they'll do.

_And who would you have chosen in their place, Mr. Hamilton? Well, sir, I can think of one competent man -_

Oh, for God's sake, Hamilton, pull yourself together.

"The Marquis de Lafayette will be joining General Scott's force with a thousand men," says Washington. "He'll be leaving tomorrow, at sunrise. General Lee will join them the next day. The advance force should engage with Clinton's men on the morning of that following Saturday..." He trails off, lost for a moment. Hamilton sees his eyes flick again to the letter to his wife.

"And what does Scott say of Lee's battle plan, sir?" he says hastily. Bad enough that he's distracted by his own ambitions and daydreams; no need for his commander's mind to wander to personal matters as well. The time to be human was months ago, at Valley Forge.

Washington closes his eyes and sighs, and Hamilton goes dead still. Washington's stoic as stone. He's a model of professionalism. If he's displaying this sort of emotion, he's more on edge than Hamilton had thought.

"General Scott says that, as of yet, no battle plan has been shared with him," Washington says. "According to him, General Lee says he has not yet received sufficient information –”

 _"Sir,"_ says Hamilton, on his feet in outrage. Washington shoots him a quelling look, and Hamilton settles, tries to soothe his ruffled feathers. He's not the only one emotional amongst the aides-de-camp, though; John Cadwalader is pinching the bridge of his nose, Meade's broken the point of his quill, and Laurens is saying, his voice tight but controlled, "Sir, all due respect to Lee, but –”

"Your opinion of General Lee's assessment of the situation was not called for, Colonel Laurens," says Washington, very quietly. Laurens presses his lips together. Hamilton can see his nails digging into the table.

"We will wait for a battle plan," says Washington, "or word from General Lee –" He stops Hamilton with a look before he can say a word; Hamilton folds his hands in his lap to stop himself tearing something in half.

Lee hasn't even written to Washington, then. Hasn't deigned to communicate with his Commander in Chief _._ Hasn't offered his own general a drop of the courtesy due to him, hasn't shared with Washington a word about what he's planning to do with the five thousand men he's stolen from Lafayette - god, six thousand, now that Lafayette's going to join him, _six thousand_ soldiers only just slapped into shape and thrown under the control of a useless British-born Virginian who can't tell his elbow from his -

"We will wait," says Washington, again, "and we will join General Lee's forces after he has led the frontal assault, and we will see what our trained soldiers can do. Is that clear, gentlemen?"

A murmur of assent, none of it enthusiastic. Washington leans back in his chair, runs a hand down his face. "Dismissed," he says. "Colonel Fitzgerald – come back in thirty minutes, the letter from Congress needs a reply."

There are a handful of too-ragged salutes in response, which Hamilton notes with a mix of irritation and anxiety – if von Steuben's discipline falls apart under this level of stress, what will it do in the face of death? And then first Laurens, then Meade, then Fitzgerald and John Cadwalader are out of the tent, and only Hamilton and Washington remain.

Washington looks at him; his eyes are dancing, as if he'd been expecting Hamilton to remain and is amused to be proved correct, but that bone-deep exhaustion is still there behind the mirth. "Colonel Hamilton," he says.

"This can't end well, sir," says Hamilton bluntly.

Washington raises his eyebrows, says nothing.

"You know as well as I do that Lee's not fit for command," Hamilton bursts out. "He can't communicate, he can't organize his supplies, he can't -"

"On the contrary," says Washington, calm, "I think General Lee is exceptionally fit for command when he wishes to be."

Hamilton's nails are digging so hard into his palms he thinks they might break skin. "And when he doesn't wish to be, sir? When he wastes his time wandering into taverns and getting himself captured and worse, blackmailed -"

"- a rumor, Colonel Hamilton, not a fact, and a rumor that has never been substantiated," Washington says. He looks less amused now, and Hamilton knows he's running against the reserves of Washington's patience.

"You can't tell me you _want_ him to lead the advance force," he says, anyway, harsh and desperate.

Washington meets his eyes at last. "And what do you suggest I do about it?" he says quietly.

That, at last, stops Hamilton cold.

"I cannot destroy Charles Lee's friendships with the men in the Continental Congress," says Washington. He hasn't broken eye contact yet, and Hamilton is suddenly and unwillingly reminded of just how _forceful_ the General can be when he wants to, the energy that pours out of him when that mask of calmness cracks, the charisma that pulled Hamilton from New York to Valley Forge to this humid, tired war camp halfway through New Jersey – is suddenly reminded of how he's followed Washington into Hell, how he'd do it again. "I cannot add years to the Marquis de Lafayette's service,” Washington continues, “or decrease General Lee's seniority -"

" _Damn_ seniority!" Hamilton bursts out, and oh Christ, immediately wishes he hadn't. Washington looks, if possible, more tired than before. Worse, he looks disappointed.

"Get some sleep, Lieutenant Colonel," he says shortly. "We'll rise early tomorrow."

There's a mixture of anger, frustration, and horrible, burning shame swirling in Hamilton's stomach - _half-taught classless brat,_ he thinks viciously, _put a uniform and a gold braid on a dog and you still can't trust it to talk like a civilized person, why should a wild West Indian little bastard be any different_. "Sir," he says, stands, and salutes. That, at least, he can do reliably.

Washington nods at him, a dismissal. Hamilton flees.

They've made camp by a mess of a lake, overgrown with weeds and algae. Hamilton angles his path towards it. No one wants to keep their campfires lit tonight – the heat's too thick and too stifling than that. Instead, they're putting them out as soon as their food is cooked, sending great plumes of smoke up to the glittering stars. Hamilton rubs a hand across his stinging eyes; there must be more smoke than fire.

And isn't that just this whole absurd endeavor. More smoke than fire, more talk than action; Hamilton thinks he's spent twice as many hours writing letters to the Continental Congress as he has with his hand on his sword, he sees Charles Thomson's name when he closes his eyes, he corrects his thoughts to Washington's voice without thinking. It's all bureaucracy, bureaucracy and petty trickery and nepotism and infighting and marching on and on and on through the damned – God, yes, he'll curse in the privacy of his mind if nowhere else – the damned and twice-damned and thrice-damned heat.

He's reached the shore of the lake at last. If this were St. Croix, he'd strip off his coat and trousers, splash into that cool water and who gives a flying fig for the algae and weeds. If this were St. Croix he'd unlace his shoes, leave his tricorn by the bank and dive down and down until the moon was just a faraway circle of light, until there was nothing but him and the water and the terrifying seductive temptation of drowning. If this were St. Croix –

Hamilton shakes himself, irritable. If this were St. Croix he'd be fourteen, penniless and illegitimate and trapped and closer to helpless than he'll ever let himself be again.

The lake is overhung with trees, enormous and green; More South Carolina than New Jersey. Laurens must feel right at home.

"Good evening, Hamilton," says a voice behind him. Hamilton turns – and of course, speak of the Devil. Unsettled as he is, he can't help but smile.

"Good evening, Laurens," he says.

Laurens looks almost as hot and tired as Hamilton feels; strands of pale hair have come loose from his queue and are stuck to the sides of his neck with sweat. His answering smile is twisted but warm.

"Walk with me," Hamilton says impulsively.

Laurens raises an eyebrow at him. Hamilton reads the question implicit there - _are you suggesting? in the open? this soon before a battle?._

Washington's face, exhausted and disappointed, swims in front of Hamilton's eyes. He blinks it away, meets Lauren's stare. _God_ , he thinks, _yes, please._

"All right," says Laurens, dubious, and they turn into the darkness of the trees.

They walk for some time, twigs snapping underneath their feet, before Laurens breaks the silence. "You stayed with the General after I left."

"I cursed at the General after you left," says Hamilton shortly; it's all he cares to say of the situation.

Laurens huffs a laugh. "Lee curses at the General every day of the week."

"Lee isn't -" Hamilton says, and then stops. They don't talk about this, Hamilton's bastardhood, his ill birth in the tropics. He's not even sure if Laurens knows. But it's no secret that Hamilton isn't the gentleman that the other officers in camp are, even in this ragtag mess of an army; it's no secret that he's not half as quick to sit and come and heel at Washington's word as he should be.

"Lee isn't competent," says Laurens calmly.

It takes Hamilton a moment to catch the compliment there. When he does, he can't bring himself to respond to it, stares out at the glimmering darkness of the lake instead. "Laurens," he says, hears the aching deadness in his own voice. "Why are we here?"

Laurens begins to answer; Hamilton waves his voice away. "Not here marching to Freehold Township," he says, "here in the Army, here on the – the damned mainland. Why am I stuck in tents writing letters to men who can't see the future past the ends of their own noses, why aren't I in New York, why aren't I –" His voice catches on the last word; it's one of those days when he can't bring himself to feel that he's earned the right to call New York _home_.

There's a sigh from Laurens, and then his silhouette, dark against the gleam of the lake, reaches for Hamilton, and Hamilton lets himself be pulled into a kiss.

This may not be St. Croix, but Laurens has no qualms about easing Hamilton's coat off his shoulders, pushing him until his back bumps against one of the overhanging trees, pinning him against the bark. Hamilton groans into his mouth – God, but he doesn't mind at all when Laurens is forceful – and Laurens grins white at him in the darkness.

"Stop thinking, Alexander," he says. Hamilton shivers, feels himself rocking his hips open, tilts his chin up to catch Laurens in another kiss.

This one's harder than before, fierce and almost angry. Laurens is biting almost hard enough to draw blood, and Hamilton thinks, suddenly, that he wouldn't mind that at all – blood in his mouth, back against a tree, nowhere to go -

Nowhere to go, except. He drops to his knees, glances up at Laurens for a split second; Laurens' mouth is curled in a smile again, and Hamilton grins privately to himself, works at the buttons of Laurens' pants until he can take Laurens into his mouth.

Insects are singing in the reeds, and Laurens is groaning above him, and Hamilton lets his mind clear, lets himself focus on this and this and only this. The heat, the feel of Laurens' uniform against his hands, the weight of Laurens in his mouth; the sheer physicality of this moment, nothing he has to do except be here, do this, do this _well_.

Laurens' hands are in his hair. Hamilton wishes, absently, that Laurens could pull it, that he could undo his queue and wander back to camp with hair down around his shoulders and the marks of Laurens' teeth and nails on his neck, down his back. He's growing harder inside his trousers, and he rocks absently against his own hand, hums against Laurens' cock and is rewarded by the harsh scrape of nails on the back of his neck.

God, what would they all think if he appeared in the General's tent with the streaks of Laurens' nails on him. What would Washington think to see his right-hand aide marked red and white, scarred at last from the battles Washington never gave him to fight. Would he say nothing, dictate letters and discuss intelligence as if all was ordinary, his words and Hamilton's pen working in perfect harmony – would he find it discomforting, unprofessional, uncivilized, order Hamilton out of the tent until he could come back as well-groomed as he ought to be – would he do worse, order Hamilton to _stay_ –

Hamilton is rock-hard in his trousers now, pushing against his hand urgently. He wants so badly to undo his buttons, wrap a hand around himself and bring himself off, but he can't. He can't, yet. His head is a mess of want, but he can't touch himself, there's been no permission, there's been no order –

\- and now Laurens is tugging at his hair a little too urgently, and Hamilton pulls away, lets Laurens come gasping into the handkerchief he's pulled from his breast pocket. He stands, catches Laurens when he stumbles, lets Laurens kiss him sweet and slow and careful.

"And here I wanted you _not_ to do the work," says Laurens, dry, when his breath is back.

Hamilton huffs a soft laugh. "And how long have you known me, Laurens?"

Laurens shakes his head; Hamilton can feel the motion against his cheek. "Too long."

"Well, I'm sure you can manage me somehow," says Hamilton, and he takes Laurens' hand and guides it towards his crotch.

"Can anyone," says Laurens, all mock despair, but his hand is moving on Hamilton's cock and Hamilton's gasping, bracing himself on Laurens, biting his tongue so as not to cry out and hissing _yes, yes_ into Laurens' mouth - he can see how Washington's constant stoicism is useful, yes, but God, he would never envy it of him.

He comes, finally, into Laurens' handkerchief. His body feels more wrung-out than it should, and Laurens is running a hand up and down his back, saying things Hamilton can't quite make out.

When the world finally swims into clarity around him, Hamilton pushes himself away from Laurens, leans back against the tree. "Well," he says. "Thank you."

Laurens nods; he's looking at Hamilton with his head tilted, and Hamilton can't quite make out his expression in the dark.

"You know why the General hasn't fought it harder, don't you?" he says. There's an odd tone in his voice. "Lee's theft of the advance force from Lafayette."

Hamilton feels the ache settle back into his bones; _why, Laurens, why, I was doing so well._ "What on earth could he do about it," he says tonelessly. “That's what he told me.”

"Yes," says Laurens, "but."

"But?" says Hamilton.

"You were at Valley Forge this winter," says Laurens, "you saw how raw the men were. You saw what they turned into when they saw blood. No training, not until von Steuben came to help. They might as well have been children."

Hamilton closes his eyes. "I remember very well," he says tightly.

There's no sound, but Laurens must have come closer, because the next thing Hamilton feels is the brush of fingers against his cheek. "And he believes in them, Alexander," says Laurens. "He believes they're disciplined, he believes they're capable soldiers. He believes they can stand up against the redcoats, even when their leaders are incompetent. He believes they're good men."

Laurens' fingers disappear; there's the crack of a twig. He's stepped away. "I'm going back to camp," his voice says, gentle. "You can come with me, if you like."

It's an invitation to sleep in his tent. They've done it before. It might be good, tonight, even with the heat pressing down on them like the hand of God. Hamilton thinks of the comfortable weight of Laurens by his side, the safe surety of being wanted, waking up in the morning wrapped up in the heat of _with, with, with._

The swirling guilt and misery in his stomach has coalesced, transformed into something harder and hotter and brighter. Something hungry.

"I'll stay out here for a few minutes longer," he says.

"Then I'll bid you a good night," says Laurens, and waits a long moment for Hamilton to reply before his footsteps crunch away into the dark.

Hamilton opens his eyes at last. The lake is spread out before him, the moonlight muddled by the weeds. He wonders, absently, if the water is good to drink. If so, they'll have to muddy it before they leave; more well-poisoning, more earth-salting, more destroying this country as best they can rather than let the British touch it. Rather than let them say it belongs to _their_ king.

_He believes they're good men._

This is the closest Hamilton has been to New York in far too long. He thinks, suddenly and heart-achingly, of King's College, of the farms and dirt paths, of the buildings burnt and broken but still surviving, of the little island he's dared to call home for longer than any man deserves to. He's had a run of good luck. He can't be far from its end.

The sky isn't quite black yet; the stars are glittering across the indigo, like holes in a cloth. Hamilton tries to count - ten, twenty, fifty - before he can't hold the numbers any more, before they run out of his head like rivers into the sea.

_Good men._

All right. It might not be true, but he can live with it.

He leans back against the tree, lets himself look and look and look at the rich green country spinning forward into the night. He'll go back to camp soon.

Not yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Historical notes, or, The Author Did Their Homework and Wants to Be a Showoff:
> 
> \- "A nation which can prefer disgrace to danger is prepared for a master, and deserves one."  
> \- At the Battle of Monmouth a few days later, Charles Lee (who was indeed known for his tendency to swear) would monumentally fuck up both the attack he'd been given command of and the ill-advised retreat he'd opted for. Washington would launch a profanity-filled tirade against him, culminating in a court-martial for Lee.  
> \- Also Laurens would challenge Lee to a duel, because why the hell not.  
> \- Washington is totally right about the newly-trained soldiers, though - they held up against the British pretty well, especially considering the poor leadership. (Half of the casualties on both sides would be heatstroke. Take your damn shirt off, Alex.)  
> \- Hamilton hates seniority not only because Lee is the ♪ wooooooorst ♪ but also because he hasn't got any - his preference of meritocracy will be a defining point of his political career.  
> \- It's a bit early for Hamilton to be frustrated with not being given a command - he won't have a proper fight with Washington over this for another three years, not long before the end of the war - but hey, why not.  
> \- Hamilton calling Martha "Lady Washington" was common but not universal. YFIP Alexander Hamilton: secret royalist.  
> \- "Secret" royalist.  
> \- "inside he was looking for something to be a part of; / the brother was ready to beg,"  
> \- ...anyway.


End file.
